


Hospital

by TheOtherCourse (kanevixen)



Series: Tom and Abigail Series [50]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Clinging, Coriolanus - Freeform, F/M, Injury, Minor Injuries, References to Shakespeare, Shakespeare, men are babies, when they are hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 09:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7886593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanevixen/pseuds/TheOtherCourse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a 100 drabble challenge on tumblr, based on a single word, HOSPITAL. </p><p>Men can be babies when they’re sick or hurt. This is a take on how Tom got injured at the end of Coriolanus, resulting in the scar on his forehead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hospital

**Author's Note:**

> **Hospital**

“Abby,” my boyfriend’s voice sounded thick and heavy and not all together right. “Come to the theatre. I need you, love.” My body tensed at the tone of his voice, every nerve on high alert, singing with stress. My pulse jumped when I heard him hiss in pain.

“Babe, what’s happened?” The worry and the concern tripped my voice up a few notches in pitch, the tone quivering uncertainly. Frantically I looked around my dressing room, searching for my bag and a handle on the moment. It was rare that Tom ever needed me, and it sent me on edge immediately. Tom and I were meant to meet for dinner in Covent Garden shortly to celebrate his complete and successful run in Coriolanus. He was so proud of this production, the combination of returning to the stage since our play and performing Shakespeare, his passion, excited him no end.

We were doing well as a couple, living together, spending as much time with one another, whenever our schedule allowed. After our pregnancy scare, his family accepting me, and surviving a little hiccup, small bout of jealousy over Richard Hammond, we were happy and content, a stable relationship. A sense of domesticity settled over us, and I was hoping that we were headed towards marriage, my deepest, sincerest wish, one I kept to myself.

“There’s been an accident. I need you here, Abby.” His tongue sounded a bit lazy, his speech slow and measured.

Throwing my bag over my shoulder and diving towards the door, I nearly pulled it off its hinges in my haste to get to him as quickly as humanly possible. “Baby, I’m on my way, leaving now. I’ll be there straightaway.” I sidestepped around some of my castmates and hit the rainy London night at a run. The theatre where I was working was only a few short blocks from the Donmar, where my boyfriend was working. I ran as quickly as the after West End theatre crowd and my feet would allow, closing the distance between me and my man in need.

I struggled to maintain my composure, I’d never heard Tom sound so… dissociative. My mind simultaneously went blank and raced, bouncing from one calamity to another, landing on nothing concrete. I avoided the front entrance of the Donmar, skipping the queue of umbrelled fans, lined against the brick wall, awaiting my man, and circled around the back. The door was propped open for me or for strike, I couldn’t say.

Stage door Keith called to me as soon as I entered the fluorescent lighted vestibule. “Abby! Here!”

Gasping, I exclaimed, “Keith!” I surged towards him, grasping his arm with frenetic energy. “Where is he? Is he alright?”

My chest heaved, the oxygen burning my lungs with the effort of catching my breath from the rush to get there. My eyes bore into those of the brash, straight-laced Englishman, willing him to alleviate my worry.

“He’s upstairs. Only a brief accident.”

I tried to take the steps two at a time but my legs were too short and the stairs too wide. The atmosphere backstage was different, stagnant, disturbing, and quiet. I made a beeline for Tom’s dressing room and found him sitting heavily in a chair with his castmate Mark Gatiss standing over him. My eyes swept the room for clues as to why my boyfriend had an icepack held to his head. There were tissues and gauze pads colored red with blood beside the men on the table.

Driven forward by my concern, I went to him, his eyes closed, his breathing shallower. Modulating my voice, I breathed out, “Tom! My Tom! What’s happened?”

My boyfriend groaned in pain, reaching for me with his right hand. I clutched his hand in mine, inching towards him, my gaze shifting between Tom, his head and Mark.

With an almost permanent expression of gentile sympathy and a soothing soft-spoken voice, Mark comforted, “A bit of a run-in with a door.” Guilt laced over his syllables, “Rushed in to lend a hand with his bags… afraid I wacked him a good one in the head with the door.” He turned to my boyfriend and apologized, “I’m unreservedly sorry, Tom. May I do anything?”

Tom pulled me into his lap as Mark explained and apologized. Gingerly I held my man’s head to me against my chest, stroking my hand down the back of his hair, careful not to jostle him. Tom waved him off, mumbling that he’d be alright.

“Baby,” I murmured. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit lightheaded.” He didn’t open his eyes, just kept his ear against my breast bone.

“I think we slowed the bleeding. I’m afraid he might have a bad head for a while.”

I nodded and smiling compassionately for Mark, focusing back on my man. “Baby, can I take you to hospital? A & E?”

Huskily, Tom denied needing that. “No… no, no hospital. Just needed my Abby.”

“I’m here, my beautiful man.” I took the icepack from him, and held it to his wound for him while Tom wrapped both arms around my middle. In sotto voce I asked, “Mark, would you be kind enough to ask Keith to bring the car round? I want to get him home.”

With a curt nod and an almost bow, Tom’s costar left to complete my request.

“Are you sure no hospital?”

“Yes… hurts like a bitch is all.”

“Did you take paracetamols?”

“Yes.”

Pulling back from him a little, I tilted his head up for me to look into his eyes. His eyelids slid open slowly, the headache dulling the brilliance and clarity of his eyes. “Can I check the bump on your head?”

He nodded once slightly. I peeled back the icepack tentatively, cautiously so as not to inflict more pain on my man. Placing the icepack aside, I eased back the gauze over the gash. The angry red swollen abrasion didn’t appear deep enough for stitches, a relief since he refused A & E care. I leaned over to a dampened cloth that was already soiled with Tom’s blood. Using a clean corner, I dabbed delicately at the broken skin, flaked with dried blood, earning a hiss and wince of displeasure from the patient.

I inhaled sharply at hurting him, “Sorry, baby… sorry… So sorry.” I’m not an expert at first aid or dealing with any kind of injury or medical emergency, I just wanted to help.

Luckily, the wound had stopped bleeding, but I applied a plaster to it in case it opened up again. I laid a gentle kiss over the top of it, stroking my thumbs along his cheekbones. Tom had closed his eyes again, allowing me to tend to him. While I worked, I tried distracting him by asking about the performance and his reflections on the run, thankful that his speech was no longer affected by the pain, as it had sounded over the phone.

Mark came back up to tell us that Keith was ready with the car to take us home. The older gentleman hauled Tom’s bags down to the boot, while I held on to Tom, leading him, supporting him. As he stood, he suffered a very brief case of vertigo and held onto to me as a solid source to hold onto and focus on to get his bearings.

When loaded into the car, Tom pulled me into the backseat with him, so he could rest his head against me. Whenever he was unwell or ill, Tom always got extra clingy with me. I suspected that I stroked his ego and showered him with the attention he craved to make him feel the alpha male he was, when he felt less so.

Keith parked the car in front of the house and excused himself to get home, hopping in his own car for his getaway. As I unlocked the front door and helped Tom inside, I asked, “Where do you want to go, sofa or bed?”

“Sofa, please.”

I situated Tom in the living room with pillows and our pink and blue duvets. Flipping the switch for a cuppa, the water boiled as I saw to whatever Tom wanted in the interim. He asked me to put Love Actually on the telly and help him undress to get comfortable. I brought a new icepack through for his head, and a couple more pills for the pain. Tea made, I took my seat beside him, wearing one of his t-shirts from the bedroom.

Leading him from his prone position, eyes closed with his head lulled against the back of the sofa, I laid him down with his head upon my lap, to caress his temple and hold his cold compress to his head. Sighing, he said, “My Abby, you’re not naked.”

I smiled down at him. “No, you’re not up for that.”

“Tease.”

“Don’t make me crack the other side of your head, Hiddleston.”

“Brutal.” Despite the pain around his cranium, his sapphire eyes were beginning to gleam and sparkle. I took some comfort that he would probably be okay another day or two once the pain dulled.

I shrugged, combing a hand through his curls. “You ponce,” I said, shaking my head. “You had to go and get your big, fat head hit.”

“Hey, a bit of sympathy for the wounded.”

“I’m sure Gatiss will get over it, you putting your head in the way of his progress…”

“Minx.”

Sobering and tilting my head to the side, I asked, “Are you really alright, baby?” I circled his temple with my fingertip, letting him see my concern for him.

He took hold of my wrist and kissed the palm of my hand. “As long as you’re here with me.”

“My beautiful man.”


End file.
